


Another Life

by Natterina



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Realities, Angst, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Other, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natterina/pseuds/Natterina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Evelyn was certain of anything, it was that she would never get along with the Commander of the Inquisition. </p><p>But what she isn't certain of is why. Fate knows the answer, and is all too willing to give it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Passage

If Evelyn Trevelyan was certain of anything in the tumultuous affair that had become her life, it was that the Commander of the Inquisition _hated_ her.

And if it wasn’t hate, it was a very, very strong aversion. He would find a way to keep conversations short, no matter how many questions she asked him; he avoided being alone with her at all costs, and rarely looked her in the eyes. At first she thought it was a templar thing, that because she was a mage he could not wrap his head around the idea of a friendship with her.

That theory was dashed when she realised he was having regular chess games with Dorian, treating the other mage as a close friend. She heard his laughter, a beautiful sound if there ever was any, float across the garden as she made to enter the Chantry, and realised with a vicious pang of jealousy that she had never heard it given so freely.

Evelyn had merely shaken her head and slipped back towards the main hall.

The most frustrating thing, she found, was that she just could not understand _why._ It seemed as though Cullen had a natural aversion to her, as though he was automatically repelled whenever he saw her.

Hell, she was certain even Cullen didn’t know why. If Cullen only had the temperament behind his behaviour, perhaps she could understand, but Evelyn was truly flummoxed. The Commander was a kind man, prone to frustration at times, but kind and honourable and exactly the kind of person she would like to be friends _with_.

(Of course, it helped that he was handsome.)

Evelyn was exploring her tower and thinking on this, unable to sleep after a particularly disastrous meeting with her advisors over the march on Adamant, when she found the brazier.

It was at the very bottom of the staircase that led from her rooms; the stairs opened up into a small square space, the entrance to the kitchens down a long corridor with a flaming brazier next to it to light up the steps to her tower.

It was _under_ the stairs where she found hers. She spotted it through the slit in the steps and, ducking under the bannister from the side, she was face to face with a solid wall and an empty brazier. No oil lay in it, but the wall almost shimmered at the touch of her hand.

Evelyn stood staring at it for a moment, wondering at the utter stupidity of putting a brazier under a set of wooden stairs. It was only when she realised the wall was an eerie shade of dark green that the thought of veilfire came to her. Solas had taught her how to light it in the Hinterlands, in case she came across anymore elvhen artefacts when he was not present.

Half asleep, Evelyn hovered her hand over the brazier and pulled forth the familiar magic, lighting up the small dark space briefly with pale light. She heard a shift, a grinding of stone on stone, and realised with shock that the wall beneath her hand was _moving_.

It moved back in a perfect rectangular shape, only just tall enough and wide enough for her to slip through. The moment the entrance had slid back the brazier extinguished, covering it in darkness. Evelyn had to stick her hand out to make sure there was still an opening.

And _oh Maker_ was she torn. The rational half of her, the side that feared the unknown after having it drilled into her all her life _knew_ she should leave it alone and go alert someone. Leliana at the very least should know; if this was a passage, it could be a serious security breach.

But the curious part of her, the part that did not want to face her advisors after the argument in the War Room, was aching to see what lay down the passage.

Biting her lip in hesitation, Evelyn took another moment before she guiltily stepped into the opening. The moment she was through, she felt the entrance start to slide closed once more; the passage before her lit up in tandem with the grinding of stone on stone, several braziers igniting with veilfire as the door closed.

As she looked back at the wall, panic pounding through her because _oh shit she was going to die here_ , she realised there was an unlit brazier in a tiny alcove on the wall.

 _Must be my way to open it from this side_.

With guilt and fear tearing at her insides, and curiosity taking over her brain, Evelyn followed the passage down, _down_ through Skyhold. It curved slightly as it went down, and Evelyn wondered where on earth she was under the castle.

She followed the passage down for maybe five minutes, following a seemingly-endless stream of veilfire until the passage opened up to the most underwhelming sight Evelyn had ever seen. It opened into a room barely big enough for six people to stand in, lit by the green glow of the veilfire. A single square table stood in the centre, old and showing signs of rot in the deep brown table legs.

On the table was a trinket of unknown origin, and Evelyn frowned.

“I have possibly found the most anti-climactic room in Skyhold.” She muttered to herself quietly, moving forward to look at the object on the table.

It was a solid circle band, made out of an iridescent material she could not identify; the centre was full of varying criss-crossing lines of a finer metal; she would have said it was spun gold if not for the colour of it. The whole thing was a pale green, and when she tilted her head a certain way there looked to be elvhen writing on the outside of the band.

Curious, ever so curious, Evelyn carefully went to pick it up, nearly dropping it when it turned out to be heavier than it looked. The moment her fingers touched the band the centre solidified, and reflected her own face, almost like a _mirror_.

Evelyn knew she had clearly learned _nothing_ from her time in the circle, for her next bright thought was to channel her magic _into_ the object.

She blacked out.

* * *

**  
-355 Ancient**

Evelyn opened her eyes, and immediately thought she had been possessed.

She was moving, but she could not _move_. She was inside a shack made up of logs, looking out through her own eyes but completely unable to control her body or her _humming_. It was alarming and jarring, and she was utterly terrified that she had succumbed to a demonic possession just by picking up that infernal object.

Evelyn soon realised that could not possibly have been the case when she took in the other occupant of the small space.

There was a man on a filthy bedroll, covered in blood that must have been his own. He was both wearing and covered in animal pelts, shaking despite the warmth he must have been feeling. He was unconscious, that was for certain. Blood covered his face in a pattern that seemed purposeful, and there was a white cloth bandage around his head.

Evelyn had stood from where she sat cross legged, and as her body looked down Evelyn saw she too was wearing animal pelts in a fashion that seemed oddly _barbaric_.

Oh Maker, what had she gotten herself into?

Evelyn moved to the man, clearly an injured soldier of some sort; if she were able to control her body she likely would have swore when she got a good look at the man’s face.

The skin was several shades darker, tanned by the sun, and the face ruddier from a barbaric lifestyle, but Evelyn could only see her Commander laying there injured on the dirty bedroll.

She had started to heal the man with magic, a green glow emitting from her palms as she pushed powerful healing magic into the prone body before her. It sapped her of her strength, but as she forced the last of her mana into the healing spell the Commander woke.

Evelyn knew she couldn’t have been possessed when those golden eyes showed absolutely no recognition when they locked on her.

That, and the total _lack_ of flinching away from her that the Commander had a habit of doing.

Evelyn immediately began moving around again, pouring healing poultices out of animal skins onto the Commander’s wounds whilst the soldier just lay there.

* * *

It was an hour later when the Commander – _no,_ not the Commander, the  _soldier_ \- spoke up.

“Why did you heal me?” _And oh_ that voice was definitely Cullen’s, even if the body was not. Evelyn turned to him.

“I’ve been healing your people for months. I’ve heard rumours, dark things growing in the north. We should not kill each other until we are sure that threat will not reach us.” Evelyn did not _know_ the language her voice was speaking, but she _understood_ it. What was going on?

“But you’re an Avvar, surely you are more invested in your queen winning this war? Healing your enemies is treason.” His voice was weak; she could tell he had been injured gravely, even if she did not see the worst of it.

“Morrighan’nan is a wise queen, but this war is _senseless_. Most of your men I have healed agree with me. I know you’re one of Dwarfson’s main warriors, I can tell by your paint. But you’ve not attacked me yet.” Her voice was confident but quiet, and Evelyn marvelled at hearing words she did not say.

“I owe you my life; I will admit I did not expect to be saved by a woman from the same clan which attacked me.”

“Well hopefully we can keep surprising you.” The only response he gave to that was a bloody cough, drops of blood lining his lips. They stayed silent for a few more minutes, before he looked back up at her.

“I will return the favour to you. The meeting at Red Falls, Dwarfson has no wish to fight fair. If he kills your queen, he will kill all of you. I would avoid Red Falls if you can.”

“But that meeting is supposed to _stop_ this war!” Evelyn heard the despair in her own voice, heard it choke her throat as the Commander gave another weak cough.

“It will end the war, but not in the way you wish.”

* * *

An hour later, an arrow whizzed through the opening to the little shelter and lodged itself in the Commander’s throat.

It came as Evelyn felt the stirrings of an attraction that was not her own; the Evelyn of whatever time this was had started to become attracted to the soldier she was treating. Whether it was the sun streaked hair, or the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones, something was stirring in her heart.

They were talking, when the arrow came in. As she lurched forward with a cry of despair, hand at the ready to _stop_ the horrible gurgling sound that came from the wounded man, a hand clutched her wrist and stopped it.

She was dragged bodily backwards by the same hand, out through the little entrance to her shelter, and deposited roughly in the slushy mud.

Another hand yanked her to her feet by her furs, choking her neck with the pressure before she was made to stand on her own two feet. Immediately she started straining against whoever was holding her furs.

“No! You have to let me heal him! I can’t let people _die_ any longer!”

A slap resounded through the silent woods, the stinging pain on her cheek nearly knocking her out with the force of the blow. A woman had stepped in front of her.

“Enough! Imagine my surprise when, in a skirmish this morning with the Alamarri, I encountered a man I mortally wounded the last time I saw him. I look forward to your explanation.”

Words like ice and the cold face to go with it, the Avvar queen was a terrifying sight indeed. Evelyn was feeling twice the amount of terror, unable to control _anything_ that was going on. She studied the woman before her; she was a tall and muscular woman, clearly capable of wielding the giant axe slung over her shoulder.

She was dressed in the same pelts and furs that Evelyn was, but hers were of a much higher quality. Evelyn herself guessed it was the Avvar queen that the Commander had mentioned. What was her name again?

“You can’t keep killing people, there’s a threat in the north and you _know_ it, we cannot face it alone.”

“I will face it with the remains of the Alamarri clans. Your betrayal at least let me know what to expect at Red Falls. A shame you won’t be there to see it.”

“Morrigan’nan, you _need_ your best healer, you _need_ me!” Evelyn was terrified, both for her body and for herself. What happened if she died here? What would happen to _Cullen?_ He’d already died by this point, there was no way he could have survived that arrow to the throat. If this was the physical fade and she died, did that mean she would become tranquil?

“I will be victorious, little pup; I will have no need of your skills.”

The giant axe was taken from its place on Morrigan’nan’s back. Evelyn saw it gleam in the dim light of the woods, saw the bloodstains on the handle from the earlier skirmish.

The blade swung towards her.

* * *

Evelyn staggered backwards, throwing the trinket on the table with such force she was surprised it didn’t break. She clutched at the wall, panting for breath with her hand fisted over her chest. Staring at the item in horror, Evelyn turned tail and ran, stumbling back up through the passage with all the terrible grace of a new-born fawn.

Her fingers clutched at the unlit brazier at the top of the passage, willing magic to flush into it to _open the damn door_. The grind of stone on stone sounded again, whisper quiet, and Evelyn forced herself through the gap the moment it was wide enough for her to get through.

Still running, her slippered feet raced up the wooden stairs to the top of her tower, her breath coming in gasps as her magic left the brazier and the stone returned to how it was. She could not breathe, could not _think_.

“What the _fuck_!”

* * *

“Ah! I wondered when your delightful presence would grace this library! What are you reading?” Dorian entered the library an hour after sun-up: Evelyn had been there since two of the morning watch.

A small ball of light was hovering above Evelyn, providing her with reading light. Dorian extinguished it as he came closer: she didn’t appear to have even heard him, nor have realised that it was bright enough that the light was pointless. He leaned over to look at what she was reading.

“Ferelden history? What on earth do you want to read about those savages for? No offense to our dear Commander, of course.”

Evelyn slammed the book shut, though at which point of his sentence he did not know. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhausted from a lack of sleep and nearly a full night absorbed in the book. She needed to _know_ , needed to know if any of what she had seen had any possibility of being true. Evelyn had never heard anything of older Ferelden history before; she needed to know if the people she had seen in the artefact were real.

“I figured learning about the Avvar wouldn’t be so bad after the fight in the Fallow Mire. We do have an Avvar agent now, after all.” She placed the book on the table beside her, watching as Dorian plucked a book from a shelf and flicked through it.

“Hmm, this one will do. Seeing as I have been delegated to sitting next to Bull during breakfast, I wish to absorb _some_ intelligence whilst doing so. Will you come down to breakfast with me, Evelyn?” Dorian had started off incredibly sarcastic, but towards the end of his words he had shifted to a masked concern. Evelyn gave him the best smile she could muster in her tired state, and sadly shook her head.

“I’m not hungry at the moment, but thank you Dorian.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t mope up here all day though; I want a mope-free space when I return.”

Evelyn had to laugh at him as he left; she was growing quite fond of the man and his quick sense of humour.

The moment he left, however, her thoughts returned to that strange dream. Vision? She could not figure out what it was, or why no one had been recognisable in it but _Cullen._ The only plausible explanation she could come up with, after reading about the Battle of Red Falls and those involved, was that she had seen the memories of her soul.

But that was insane! It wasn’t even as though that would explain why Cullen hated her; she was not the one to kill him in that. Evelyn did not believe in reincarnation; she was Andrastian, and believed that good souls returned to the Maker’s side. So what was going on?

“If you keep staring at the book like that, Inquisitor, I am afraid you may set it on fire.”

She could almost have groaned at the irony. Speak of the demon, and all that. What on earth was Cullen doing in the library?

“Commander! Why are you in the library?” The tone of her voice must have set him on edge, because _then_ he took a step back when she looked up at him. He was dressed in his normal clothing, though she guessed he had probably already had breakfast: she knew he rose early.

“I have a meeting with Leliana, but I saw you glaring at the book from the stairwell. What did it do to offend you?” There was something different in him; he wasn’t constantly trying to inch away from her as he spoke to her, or giving her a hard look whenever he had to look at her.

“It gave me information I did not wish to receive.” At that he gave a small chuckle, quiet in the empty library. Evelyn gave him a small smile, hoping beyond hope that something would change.

But as the silence stretched, Cullen placed a hand to the back of his neck and gave a sigh.

“I am afraid I must leave; I do not wish to keep Leliana waiting.”

“Oh, of course. Good day, Commander.” If her voice held disappointment, neither of them noticed. Cullen gave her an incline of his head.

“And you, my Lady.” With that, he turned to leave, striding back towards the stairwell with purpose. Evelyn watched him go, her mouth half open in surprise.

He had never called her _My Lady_ before. He had never willingly sought her out, or spoke to her without good reason. Something between yesterday evening and today had changed things, and Evelyn had a horrible feeling she knew what could have done it. She wasn’t sure how; she knew _he_ had no idea of what she had seen or he would not be so calm about it, but her encounter with the strange object beneath her tower had done something to _one_ of them, changed the nature of their interactions.

Slamming the book into its place on the shelf next to her, Evelyn shot up in her chair and went down to breakfast.

She was going to go back tonight, when all but Skyhold’s skeleton crew were asleep. She was going to rewatch that scene and search for any indication of something changing.

* * *

**  
-98 Ancient **

When Evelyn opens her eyes, she is somewhere else _entirely_.


	2. Maleficar

**-98 Ancient**

When Evelyn opened her eyes, she was somewhere else _entirely_.

She was wearing a very old style of mage robes, made of a fur far lighter than she had in the last vision. Her entire build was much less lean muscle than last time; she was merely skinny and petite, that much she could tell.

And she was running.

A crude staff was balanced on her back, bouncing with every hurried step she took. Evelyn realised she was fleeing towards a forest line, hoping for the lush canopy to hide her presence in darkness as the sun set over the trees.

Moments after she crossed the tree line, she was darting left and right, zig-zagging through the forest and avoiding tree trunks twice the width of her body. Once she was far enough in, her body stopped moving and Evelyn felt her body throw itself flat against a tree trunk, remaining deadly silent in the forest.

She could hear the tell-tale sound of boots cracking twigs and leaves echo through the dimming forest; what she had been fleeing from, she did not know, but it did not appear to be good.

The footfalls came closer to where she stood; she could not move, her body exhausted and Evelyn herself unable to actually control what she did. The cracking of twigs came closer, and a panicked Evelyn spun around the tree, ready to flee again.

The sword tip stopped close enough to her throat that it nearly tickled her skin, glinting in the darkening light.

“Don’t. Move.”

Gulping, she took in the man before her. A rough iron helmet hid his face from her, but he was decked out in well-crafted armour the colour of charcoal. Evelyn noticed with interest that the Inquisition’s all-seeing eye was on his chest plate, but the Sword of Mercy was missing. Pre-Nevarran Accord Inquisition, then?

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“I would have believed that if you hadn’t led me on a chase through Orlais for the last half a year.”

 _Oh_ Maker’s mercy, Evelyn was starting to notice a pattern here. She recognised that voice immediately.

“You’ve been trying to _kill_ me from the start!” There was a desperation in her voice that made the soldier hesitate, lowering his sword slightly so it hovered next to her collarbone.

“You were found in the presence of a known maleficar, in a temple to Dumat.” Internally, Evelyn winced at those words; they would have been damning even in her own time.

“And you don’t think there’s a possibility I wasn’t there willingly? Please, I’m begging you, _do not kill me_.”

* * *

Somehow, he had relented. With mana-depleting bracelets thrown onto her wrists, he had lowered his sword and commanded her to accompany him to the Inquisition’s fortress. There, she would be able to plead her case, though he made no promises on the outcome.

Evelyn found herself being forced to follow him through the very forest she had fled to: he claimed the roads were being patrolled by Inquisition agents, on the lookout for potential cultists and maleficarum.

When he allowed them to stop to set up camp for the night, and removed his helmet as he knelt to start a small fire, Evelyn’s suspicions were confirmed. The face of the Commander of her armies glared down at the small pile of sticks and kindling, struggling to get a fire to start with his gauntlets on.

“Here, please allow me.” Evelyn knelt next to him, a small smile on her face, and held her wrists out to him. With a distrustful look, he carefully removed the mana-depleting bands from her. The fire was lit within minutes.

The soldier warily reached for his sword as she started the magic, but once it became apparent she had no intention to attack, he allowed himself to relax slightly and focus on the fire.

“You say you are not a maleficar or a cultist; what were you doing in that temple?”

Evelyn felt her body still.

“I was seeking refuge. You and your order have been fairly zealous in your attempt to protect the world from magic. I did not know it was a cultic temple until your order came in an hour later.”

“Yet you fled.” The words were hard, suspicious. He met her eyes and the look alone told her he did not believe her.

“Would your order have believed me?” At her words he looked away, and she thought she could see a flicker of shame on his features. “Now you understand why I fled.”

In the tense silence that followed, a thought struck the woman Evelyn was inhabiting.

“If you do not trust me, how are you going to sleep _and_ make sure I do not flee in the night?”

At her words the Commander – _no,_ she _had_ to stop thinking of him as Cullen, it was _not_ Cullen – gave her a raised brow and a small chuckle.

“Did you think I was travelling alone?”

For her answer, Evelyn gave a pointed look around the small _empty_ clearing they were in. With another chuckle, the _soldier_ whistled loudly in the direction of the clearing edge. Moments later, one of those large, _bulky_ dogs from the southeast came bounding out of the tree line towards them. It stopped by the soldier’s side, sitting down on its haunches with a stern look towards her.

A Mabari, Evelyn realised. A fear that was not her own ran through her body; it seemed this version of herself had never encountered one before.

Evelyn had no answer to give him, but merely sat on a log and watched as the dog kept its keen eyes on her at all times.

Silence followed, resting on them like a thick blanket. Evelyn was fighting for something to say, not wanting to sit in silence for the entire night. The Commander, however, looked like a war was going on in his own head, his eyes darting between her and the dog. His lips were pursed slightly, and his eyebrows so furrowed she thought they were going to meet in the centre of his forehead.

After half an hour of tense silence, broken only by the occasional movement of the dog, the Commander quickly bit his lip and marched over to her, the dog following.

“Can you heal?” His eyes were searching hers, watching as she leaned away from him in surprise. The dog was eye level with her; she sensed he knew what his master was planning.

“I, what? I- I mean I can knit skin and muscle together, sure, but anything more I cannot do.”

He frowned then, hovering briefly between a decision before he roughly grabbed her right wrist and yanked it towards him. Evelyn was barely able to cry out in pain before he had unsheathed his sword and sliced her palm deep enough to expose the tendons.

Blood pooled out of the wound, and he held it towards the mabari. The dog rubbed his jowls along her hand, covering his muzzle with the warm blood and allowing it to trickle onto his golden chest. The moment the dog was sufficiently covered, the soldier dropped her stinging and aching hand and let it fall onto her lap.

“Heal yourself.”

Evelyn wasted no time, and observed that it felt odd to perform magic without feeling the pull of the fade in her own consciousness. The skin knitted together with a green glow, and the pain subsided.

“Now go.”

 _That_ drew her attention.

“ _What?_ What do you mean, _go?_ ” Evelyn was confused, watching as the soldier set his jaw and his cold brown eyes on her.

“Exactly what you think it means. I don’t think you’re a danger, and I do not want to be responsible if you _are_  innocent but the Inquisitor kills you anyway. I will tell the next agent I see that the dog mauled you to death. Now _go_. Find somewhere you can pretend you’re not a mage, and lay low.”

Evelyn could not believe what she was hearing; merely half a day earlier he was a hair’s breadth away from slicing her throat open, and now he was letting her _go_?

“Why are you doing this?” Evelyn asked, taking note of where her items were. The Commander had allowed her to keep her staff strapped to her back, as she could not use it with the bracelets on. Her pack was on the floor next to his, but she could grab that and run in an instant.

“I told you, I think you’re innocent of being a maleficar.”

Her body stilled, wound tight and ready to flee as it had been every night since she had been caught in that damned temple. He gave her a look, one that begged her to go before he changed his mind, and Evelyn moved.

She grabbed her pack in a quick moment, briefly hesitating before she turned back to see the Commander watching her carefully, a hand on his sword hilt. With a burst of confidence –and stupidity- she leant in and kissed him swiftly on the cheek.

“Thank you.”

And then she was gone. Evelyn's eyes opened to the green light of the room under her tower, the warmth of the fire never there to begin with.

* * *

 

Three weeks after they returned from Adamant, Evelyn took Josephine and Dorian to Val Royeux, under the excuse that they were going to meet Josephine’s contact about the death of her men.

When Josephine stayed behind in the Duke’s estate to help free him from the dressing cabinet, Evelyn led Dorian away from the centre of the city to a large mansion, where she had an appointment of her own to keep.

The moment they walked through the door, Dorian raised a brow in disgust and suspicion.

“Andraste’s knickers, what is that _smell_? It smells like-“ Dorian cut himself off, narrowing his eyes at Evelyn. “ _-wet dog.”_

She gave a small giggle.

“You’re the only person I know who will disapprove but _will_ let me do it. I was going to get one as a gift for the Commander. The breeder has two left, they’re sixteen weeks old.”

“I hope I’m not expected to touch the dirty little thing.” Dorian sniffed, a look of utter disgust on his face that Evelyn had to laugh at.

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after the dog.”

* * *

 

As it turned out, Dorian found himself having no choice but to be near _one_ of the Mabari. Evelyn had _honestly_ intended to purchase only one, the bitch with the jet black coat and white muzzle. But when she went into the breeding room, there were _two_ pups left, kept cruelly in a small crate, and her heart began to doubt.

When she locked her gaze with the golden-brown pup, however, something inside her shifted and melted her doubting heart.

“I’ll be damned, Inquisitor.” The Orlesian seller had said with a tone of surprise. “The pup is bonding to you.”

She had left the estate two pups heavier, with a lighter money pouch and an irritated Dorian; he had no choice but to hold one of the pups in his arms.

And when Evelyn returned to Skyhold the next day, she managed to keep the pup acquisition quiet from Cullen, instead visiting his office and outright insisting that he go to the evening meal for the sake of his health. She had argued that his lack of eating coupled with his withdrawal was only going to make him worse, and Cullen had relented with frustration.

His annoyance had increased when _she_ didn’t turn up to the meal until half an hour after him, but when she seated herself next to him in the hall she had the widest, smuggest grin on her face that, coming from anyone else, would have been highly unsettling. She had been plotting something, he knew that much.

He returned to his office an hour later, thoroughly intending to just _sleep_ for once. When he climbed his ladders, exhausted and irritated from a long day’s work, he did not expect the sight that greeted him.

Curled up on the end of his bed, snoozing but alert, was the jet black pup he had been hearing rumours of since the Inquisitor returned to Skyhold.

He couldn’t help the small smile that graced his features.

* * *

“Fasta vass, now the little beast is following you.”

“Oh shush.” Evelyn was entering the library with a book in hand, the golden-brown mabari on her heels. “You love him really, Dorian.”

“I most certainly do _not_. Oh look, it has brought a smell.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Try not to be too dramatic, Dorian. I have a question for you.”

“Oh? Does it have to do with your night-time disappearances the week before we left for Adamant?” He gave her a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, and Evelyn slapped him with the book. The dog barked playfully.

“No! I mean, yes actually. I found an ancient elven artefact underneath Skyhold.”

“You-“ Dorian cut himself off with a frown; he was not entirely sure how to take that announcement. He was looking at her as though she had grown an extra head, and he cast a pointed look towards the bannister of the rotunda.

Evelyn had made sure Solas wasn’t down there before she came up to the library. So she waited, watching Dorian until he had formulated a reply.

“Not that I don’t find that incredibly interesting, Evelyn, but why are you not telling _Solas_ this? I’m sure he would be far more interested than I.” He was sitting back in his chair now, curiosity on his face and his chin resting on long fingers.

“Because although I trust Solas, and find him to be a valuable friend, I’m not… _comfortable_ discussing what I’m seeing in the artefact.” At those words Dorian sat forward, a wicked look on his face.

“Oho! And what exactly is it showing you? Don’t you want the elf seeing your deepest darkest fantasies? I’m willing to bet it includes Cullen, you bought him a dog after all. That's probably a proposal of marriage in the land of the dog lords. And you two are far too unfriendly towards each other for there to be no sexual tension between you.”

She flushed a deep red; he had hit the nail on the head in _entirely_ the wrong way.

“I… there is no _sexual tension_ between myself and the Commander.” Evelyn hissed, voice low. If she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn she could hear a muffled laugh from the level above.

“But whatever you’re seeing _does_ include him? Interesting.”

“I- yes but, you don’t… _argh_ you are infuriating!” Evelyn was half laughing, half embarrassed as Dorian gave her an amused wink. “Just meet me on the staircase to my rooms just after midnight.”

“I will be sure to be discreet; we wouldn’t want our darling Commander to get jealous now, would we?” He watched her throw him an exasperated look before she turned on her heel, the dog following her. “And where are you going now?”

Dorian knew she did not _want_ to tell him when she turned, a deeper blush on her face.

“I have a meeting.”

“With _who_? You don’t usually go to the war meetings with your _day_ dress on.”

“I have a _chess_ game, Dorian.” He started to laugh, a suggestive joke halfway out of his mouth before she shut him up. “No! Just, _no,_ Andraste’s knickers, meet me tonight and I’ll take you to the artefact, sheesh.”

Evelyn hurried out of the library, Dorian’s laughter following her to the garden.


	3. 3:25 Towers

When she reaches the garden, Cullen is already there.

A chess board has been set up on the table, and he sits on the side that allows a view of the door she comes out of. But Cullen does not see her; he is sitting back in the chair, his gaze looking down at the black mabari that rests her heavy head on his knees.

The smile on his face is breathtaking.

Evelyn cannot turn her eyes away; his smile is only a small upwards tilt of the lips, allowed in the quiet and relative solitude of the garden at such an early hour. He does not wear his gauntlets: they rest on the table whilst one of his hands gently scratches the dog’s ears.

It takes a moment for her to realise that his face is not necessarily alight with joy, but rather it lacks the look of stress that has dug lines into his face the last few weeks. He so frequently wears a look of stress, with furrowed brows and a downturned mouth, that Evelyn has simply never seen him without it. Here, in the solitude of the garden and in the company of his mabari, he is the calmest she has ever seen him.

Evelyn feels her palms go clammy and her heart speed up, and the first thing she does is groan internally.

 _Oh shit_.

She must have made some sort of noise, however, because the mabari at the table is alert in less than a second, moving away from Cullen and staring at the entrance to the garden. Evelyn’s mabari darts out from behind her skirts, and throws himself at the female dog. They snap playfully at one another, and Cullen rises from his chair as she makes her way into the garden.

“Inquisitor.” The furrowed look is on his face once more, cautious and guarded in her presence. They are not friends, despite her wish to be so (and perhaps even more, if her heart rate and nerves are anything to go by). She gives him a friendly smile, and she can see he is thrown off guard.

“Commander Cullen, I see you arrived early.”

He relaxes slightly at her smile, sitting back down into his chair and motioning to the one opposite him.

“As did you, Inquisitor. Shall we begin?” Frowning at his words –he does not seem to want to engage with conversation with her- Evelyn takes the seat opposite him. They play in silence for a few minutes, the awkwardness between them so palpable Evelyn could set it alight.

Then he clears his throat and gives her a genuine –but small- smile.

“I ah, wanted to thank you, Inquisitor.” And _oh_ , Evelyn feels a pang of disappointment when she realises a thanks was the only reason he wanted to meet. Their eyes are drawn to the dogs at the same moment; they snap and circle at each other, playfully, almost as if they are sparring themselves.

“I do not know how you came across them, and I’ll admit I did not know just _how_ much I wanted a mabari until I returned to my rooms and found her sleeping on my bed.” Cullen gives her a pointed look as he says it, moving a chess piece across the board. Evelyn’s cheeks redden.

“Ah, sorry about that. I wanted her to be a surprise, and I didn’t want to risk her running out the door when you opened it, so I carried her to the top floor. Putting her in your er, bed, seemed the logical choice.” As she stammers out her justification, with burning cheeks and a worry in her chest, Evelyn is struck with the realisation that she has no idea how to interact with this man outside of work business.

Judging by the way he averts his eyes from hers, the silence becoming too heavy, he realises it too.

“Nevertheless, I wanted to thank you. Normally, I would insist you take her back, that I could not accept such a gift, but…” He trails off, and Evelyn already knows the feeling that bubbles in his chest.

“She’s chosen you, hasn’t she? I had a feeling she would, my own bonded to me just as quickly.” Evelyn sits back and twirls a piece between her fingers, before placing it back on the board with certainty. Another one of the Commander’s small smiles is gracing his lips, and Evelyn lets out a chuckle.

“Oh Commander, if you could see your face. Our soldiers would be shocked and astounded if I told them you smiled over a _dog_.”

Cullen takes her deposited piece with a wicked smirk.

“It’s a good thing then, my lady, that none of my men will ever believe you.”

The ‘my lady’ shoots up her spine like a bolt of electricity; it accompanies his laugh, and Evelyn feels the atmosphere between them change again. There’s a level of acceptance, a wall being lowered as Cullen looks back to the dogs. They are silent for another moment before he speaks again.

“What have you named him?”

Evelyn thinks on that; she has yet to choose a name for her mabari, merely whistling when she needs him to come to heel. But her earlier conversation with Dorian has given her an idea.

“I think I’m going to call him Beast.”

“You own one of the most loyal animals in Thedas, and you’re going to refer to him as _Beast_?” Cullen seems incredulous, looking over at the dog with something she would call pity if she did not know better. She raises her brow.

“Oh? And what have you named yours?” Cullen remains silent, pondering the chessboard with far more intensity than he needs to, and Evelyn chuckles. “Just as I thought. At least mine _has_ a name. You could ask Sera for suggestions.”

“Maker _no_.” He blurts it out before he can stop it, and Cullen feels his cheeks go pink. “I mean, just _no_. She’ll come back responding to either something tawdry, or something ridiculous.”

Evelyn finally takes one of his pieces, a grin on her face.

“Are you telling me you _don’t_ want to yell ‘teats’ across the courtyard in front of all our dignitaries and soldiers?”

Cullen laughs then, a sound she shamefully admits she has not heard without his guarded restraint, and it is _wonderful_.

“Maker’s breath, Josephine would string me up for such a thing.” He gives her a grin then, and Evelyn takes another of his pieces with an answering one, full of the feeling of discovery.

They play in companionable silence for up to another hour, their respective mabari alternating between guarding their owners and play fighting in the gardens. Occasionally they break the silence with conversation, on families left behind and their hopes for when the war is finished. If they are both awkward when it comes to the possibility of Evelyn even surviving what will be the final battle, neither of them draw attention to it.

The conversation flows easily, something which is awfully new to them both. Their initial opinions of the other had delayed the stirrings of a friendship; he thought her snobbish and unyielding, and she thought he was prejudiced and disdainful of her mage upbringing. Neither has ever thought this possible.

Evelyn wins the game, after such a disastrous start, and she narrows her eyes at Cullen as she wins. She _knows_ he is throwing the game; he had started out ruthless, but made obvious mistakes the easier their conversation became. Nevertheless, she gives him a winning smile and he returns it in kind.

“Inquisitor, thank you for an excellent game.” They both know, as he whistles for his mabari to come to his side, her ears perked and her head resting automatically beneath his hands as she approaches, that he is thanking her for so, _so_ much more than a simple chess game.

* * *

Dorian meets her one hour past midnight, with the most flirtatious grin she’s ever seen. He walks up the stairs into her room just enough to see over the bannister, and she rolls her eyes at the look.

“My dear, what do you suppose people will say if they saw me sneaking up here at so late an hour?”

Evelyn gives a laugh at that, sending a ball of mage-light his way so it hovers beside his neck.

“Not much, considering if they saw you, they _definitely_ saw that. Dorian, I’m sorry to tell you, but I think your mysterious lover is actually a vampire.”

Dorian bats away the mage-light with a smirk and a friendly wink, but it is _too_ calculated, the aim of drawing her attention away from it betrayed by the smugness of his smirk. Evelyn directs her light towards his neck again: from the size and colour of the love mark, she _knows_ it is a singular mark and not a many grouped together. Her eyes narrow.

“A vampire… or a _qunari_.”

“Let’s stick with vampire, shall we? Much less of an awkward conversation to have in the dead of night. Now, what was it you wanted to show me?” He clapped his hands together in forced delight, before motioning for her to follow him out of the room. Evelyn followed, the little ball of light floating between them until she takes the lead and leads the way down the stairs.

When they reach the bottom, the ball of light turns to flame and changes to the pale colour of veilfire, and Evelyn lights the brazier as Dorian watches in curiosity.

“Do you remember, in the fade, what the Nightmare said to me?” Evelyn asks the question quietly, not wanting to draw attention to them as the stone begins to move.

Dorian frowns as they wander down the passage, his face lit up with the eerie glow of the veilfire.

“Something about you killing someone. I can’t rightly remember, I was too busy panicking over what it said to _me_.”

“Of course, I apologise. It said, ‘did you think there was a logical reason for your feelings, Inquisitor? You killed him once, and you will lose him again, many times before this is done. So many realities, and you will murder in each and every one.’ And at first I didn’t know what it was talking about, until I realised that in the first vision, I got him killed.”

“Got _who_ killed, Evelyn?”

“See, _that’s_ the thing.” The passage ends, opening up into the small room with the elvhen artefact. “If I hadn’t found this before Adamant, I wouldn’t have had a clue what the Nightmare was talking about. I’ve used this thing twice, and both times it has showed me something that shouldn’t _be_.” Evelyn holds the solid circle band up between them: Dorian takes it from her hand gently, spinning it between his fingers with furrowed brows.

“I’m confused: first, _who do you keep getting killed_ , and second, what even is this?”

“Commander Cullen!” Evelyn snaps the word at him in frustration, before she ducks her head in apology. “When I channel my magic into that _thing_ , it shows me things. And I don’t understand, because I have only done it twice and he died in only _one_ of them. And I don’t really know what it is Dorian; the only information I have really found on it is the certainty that it is elvhen.”

“Oh, exciting! Let me try, I want to see what it shows me.” With a grin, Dorian focuses his magic on the small item in his hands, the rich purple glow of his magic enveloping the artefact without being absorbed by it.

Evelyn watches in fascination; is this what it looks like when she does it? She usually awakens long after her magic has retreated back into her being. The room was shadowed in the deep purple glow; she imagines this was what the vats containing Tevinter murex dye looked like, a purple so deep it is almost bronze red.

Like the cracking of a whip, Dorian’s magic recoils from the artefact it had been wrapping itself around, and he spins to look at her.

“ _Well_? What did you see?” Her voice is all eager and not enough restraint; she wants to know if she is not alone in seeing these strange visions. Dorian, however, shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing, as in, I stood here for five minutes channeling my magic into that thing only for nothing to happen. That kind of nothing.” The wry smile he gives her is apologetic, and Evelyn deflates.

“Right, okay. Pass it here then, I want you to time how long I’m stood here with this thing, and then I’ll tell you what it shows me this time.”

“I beg your pardon? And just _what_ do you think I’m going to use to tell the time? In case you haven’t noticed, my dear, but there are no windows this far underground.”

“Oh just count the seconds.” At Dorian’s shocked look, Evelyn gives him his earlier wink and channels her own magic into the artefact.

She blacks out, _again_.

* * *

 

** 3:25 Towers **

Evelyn wakes in pre-dawn light, curled up in a ratty bedroll in a tent too small for her to plausibly stand up in it. There is the recognisable sound of a camp around her; the clinking of armour and the low murmur of voices surround her tent, and she knows from the lights she can dimly see outside that hers is just one tent among many.

 For one terrifying, horrible moment, she wonders if everything since Adamant has been a dream, that perhaps everything _before_ Adamant is also one long elaborate dream, and she is in reality still in her tent on the eve of battle. Evelyn _almost_ wants to believe that.

She internally gives a gasp of surprise, however, when she recognises the feel of a heavy arm draped over her – _very_ naked- waist. There is a hand flat against her stomach, and it pulls her into the –also very naked- chest of the man behind her.

There is a feeling of sand behind her eyelids; the customary sign that she has had far less sleep than she ought to. With an inward cringe, she feels the warm, sticky soreness between her legs that indicates _very_ desperate and hard sex.

Without even needing to look down at the golden hairs on the arm around her waist, Evelyn knows exactly who is holding her so tightly.

Her body rolls over in the bedroll, one hand reaching to rest on the cheek of a very firm arse, and the other curled against her stomach. Her breasts tickled with the sensation of chest hair brushing against them, and Evelyn could feel her lips tilting up in an adoring smile as she looks at the man she shared her bed with.

Of course, Evelyn is no less mortified when her suspicions are confirmed. Her mind betrays her mortification however, when she imagines Cullen’s face if she told him she knew he had a patch of freckles on his arse.

Like the first time this happened, she is struck by how peaceful he looks when he is asleep. Without the furrowed brows he is a strikingly handsome man, more so than when he has the stern and broody look on his face. The square jaw is the same, the pattern of stubble along the jawline identical to how it had been in the garden this afternoon.

“Warden-Constable, you should probably wake up soon. We march in two hours.” Her voice is soft and affectionate, laced with an intimacy she has never heard in her tone. His eyes, and _damnit_ Evelyn is just going to refer to him in her head as Cullen to make it easier, flutter open with a groan.

“Hunter Fell can wait.” With that, he pulls her even closer, resting his face in the crook of her neck. And _Maker,_ if Evelyn were in her actual body right now, her heart would probably be racing. As it stands, she doesn’t even react except to hum in the back of her throat and sling a leg over his hip.

“Yes well, I’d like you to be conscious before I leave. I’ll need to groom Neah before I even think of flying her today.”

“Damned bird.” The vibration of his voice rattles her, resounding on her collarbone as it did. It is more intimate and affectionate than she has ever experienced, and it aches to know that _this_ is not real.

She laughs, a fond smile tilting her lips.

“Relax. I’ve been with you for nigh on a decade; a griffon is not going to take me away from you.”

Cullen looks at her then, his eyes searching her face as the hand that was curled against her stomach lifts to the back of his head and holds him closer.

“I almost wish she would, if it would spare you this battle. I would do anything to keep you away from the front lines.” A dread settles in her stomach then, and Evelyn feels her eyes fill with tears. It is an odd sensation, when she cannot empathise with the grief behind it.

“You’re closer to the front than me, _Warden-Constable._ If anything, I am the one who needs to be worried.”

Cullen gives her a tight squeeze, shifting so his head is pillowed on her breasts.

“I love you. No matter what happens today, I _need_ you to know that.” His voice is muffled by her skin, but she hears him well enough. Evelyn wants to blush, feeling like she is intruding on herself.

“And I you.”

After her history lessons prior to the siege of Adamant, Evelyn unfortunately knows exactly where she is.

And after the Nightmare, she has a pretty good idea of what is _going_ to happen.

* * *

They part ways at the gate to Hunter Fell, both of them decked out in full armour. Their kiss is desperate, a goodbye that neither wants to speak aloud. Cullen’s hand is tight on her waist, cinching the chainmail and robes together as his other hand rests on the back of her neck. It is desperate and intimate and a goodbye that tugs at her gut so badly Evelyn herself wants to cry at the utter  _tragedy_ of it all.

It is _hours_ later when Evelyn, covered in so much blood and sweat and dust that the traditional blue armour of the Grey Wardens is indistinguishable, finally lands Neah outside the gates to Hunter Fell.

It had been a very grim day, and Evelyn found herself nearly thrown out of the sky at the force of the magic that came with the death of the Archdemon Toth. The griffon riders descended from the sky one at a time, starting with the most injured.

The least injured griffon riders had begun to pile up the darkspawn bodies, whilst the foot soldiers sorted out their own casualties with the help of the Tevinter and Orlesian soldiers. Evelyn was relatively intact; the worst injury to her griffon was a slashed front leg and singed wing feathers. _She_ was in a worse shape, but that could wait.

She had not been able to see the entirety of the battle on the front lines, having spent most of the fight high in the sky and aiming her spells at large clusters of darkspawn within the city.

So when she finally lands, her suspicions are raised when the Warden Commander of Nevarra refuses to look her in the eye. The tears well up then, and Evelyn’s body runs off and away towards the large field beside the camp.

It has been turned into an open-air morgue.

The highest ranking officers are at the front, but the row of few Warden-Constables that perished is thankfully small and out of the way about three rows in.

If Evelyn was truly in her own body, she would likely have vomited at the sight of a pale, _dead_ Cullen laid out on the floor, hands clasped together over his chest. It was a shock to her system; the stern and indomitable Commander of the Inquisition who led her troops at Adamant _seemed_ so invulnerable that it was hard to believe that he too could be bested.

Evelyn feels acutely the pain that lances through the body she is inhabiting: the grief is so powerful, so sharp that she has no choice _but_ to feel it. She throws herself to the floor beside the dead Commander, shaking him desperately as though he were only dreaming.

“Wake up, _come on_. This isn’t another one of your jokes.” Evelyn prays she never hears that tone in her voice again; it is cracked and broken and weak, marred with the gasping sound of a sob being held back. She pulls the body into her lap, clutching it tightly and rocking it back and forth with a howl of agony so strong she is alarmed.

The pain and grief is lancing through her, actually hurting _her_ , and Evelyn finds it difficult to concentrate when the cloud of despair envelopes her as well. The cry is heart breaking, the grip on the dead Commander’s body so tight and full of grief that even _she_ expects him to wake up.

His face is a _mess_ , she thinks, as she observes the wounds. The front of his armour is soaked through with so much blood it is still damp, hours after the battle has finished. A sword through the stomach, likely the fatal but not the only blow. There is blood in a long line across the chest of his armour, probably caused by the same sword that plunged into his stomach.

His face, though, is so bad that Evelyn cannot believe it is him at first. It’s obviously the result of a shield bash, from a very sharp and spiked shield. Evelyn feels the hopelessness start to overcome her, the sadness and dread that is both her own and not her own.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and she looks up to see the Warden Commander from before. He gives her a look of pity.

“They were surrounded by almost fifty darkspawn. He could not have survived it.” The words are meant to be pitying, comforting, but Evelyn feels the raw grief that is not her own hit her again and again, drowning her in the waves of it as another cry leaves her lips.

She is struggling to breathe, hyperventilating and uncaring as she hugs the body of her Commander to her chest.

* * *

"One hour, roughly."

Evelyn comes to with a low keening noise that has Dorian alert and at her side in an instant. Her face twists into the unimaginable pain of loss that he recognises too clearly.

Her knees buckle as he takes the artefact from her hands and places it on the table, and she collapses into him with no control over her emotions, no idea _what_ emotions are her own and which are echoes.

Deep beneath Skyhold, no one but Dorian can hear her confused cries of grief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone suggest a name for Cullen's Mabari? I'm struggling to come up with one that sits right!


	4. Bonding

It takes Evelyn several hours of exhaustion and tears to calm herself down enough to tell Dorian what happened.

By that point, the Tevinter had already been concerned enough for her wellbeing to fetch Solas, and the elvhen mage had hit her with a blast of healing magic so powerful her senses went completely numb, and the braziers on the walls of her chambers died down from their impressive blaze.

Evelyn had spilled it all out to Dorian, the pain she could not understand combined with the stress of the last several weeks to create a harrowing account of what she had seen in the artefact, leaving her gasping for breath at the memory of a pain that was not her own.

Solas watches it all from his place by her desk with Beast at his feet, watches her struggle with the echoes of grief and her confusion surrounding her own feelings for the Commander. Even if he did not suspect she was struggling with affections for the equally-awkward Cullen, he knows that seeing the Commander of her armies dead would be enough to shake anyone.

Solas knows exactly what it is she has stumbled upon: he had not known one was in Skyhold, no, but he had encountered one buried amongst the remains of a high priest in an elvhen ruin one of his agents had passed through on her return from sending his orb to Corypheus. He had seen his possibilities, the taunting future in a world where Arlathan was never torn apart from the inside out. The taunting promise of brief happiness in a world where the Inquisitor is wholly different, with pointed ears and dark red vallaslin.

Solas shakes his head at the memory. It is easier to distance himself in this reality, and if the young First had inexplicably found her wagon burned to bits one morning on the road to the Conclave, well, he is merely glad that merry group of Dalish elves had turned back to Clan Lavellan and missed it entirely. Far easier to regret a love he had never come to feel.

He much prefers this Inquisitor, whose aloofness and initial sense of superiority had nipped any chance of respecting humanity right in the bud. They may be friends now, and he may hold much respect for her, but his choice is far, far easier without love involved.

Evelyn Trevelyan may have lost her sense of superiority as she was thrown into the role of Herald, but aloofness remains and Solas knows it has left her unable to properly deal with expressing her own emotions through anything other than her magic. Solas knows that her encounter with the elvhen artefact has left her full of a grief she has no idea how to process.

* * *

Cullen is standing on the battlements in the early hours of the morning, when Evelyn next approaches him of her own accord. The soldiers have been engaged in a delayed celebration of their victory at Adamant, and so a skeleton crew patrols the walls as Cullen observes the dying revelry in the glowing courtyard.

It is quiet, the valley behind him pitch black in the dark night, the wind cooling his cheeks and nose as the quiet is occasionally broken by the sounds of Maryden’s lute and the laughter and dancing of the soldiers. It is peaceful and calm, as soothing as those nights he used to flee to his lake as a child and watch the stars in the cool air. He has not known such a peace since those early days.

Cullen notices Evelyn leaving Skyhold through Solas’ floor of the rotunda, the orange light of the fires in the courtyard making it immediately obvious it is her heading towards his office. Her usually braided hair is pulled up into a bun on her head, something which would make him doubt her identity if not for the brown inquisition jacket and the bright red scarf at her neck.

Cullen watches her go into his office, curious as to whether she will give up upon finding him absent or come searching along the battlements for him.

Five minutes later, he hears the now-familiar sound of claws scraping against stone and wonders why it didn’t occur to him that she would send his dog after him. Evelyn follows his mabari through the door of the empty tower onto the battlements, giving him a small smile as she comes to stand next to him and lean against the stone.

They stand in silence for a moment, Evelyn leaning against the battlements with both arms and Cullen standing straight, almost at attention if not for a hand resting on the head of his loyal mabari. Cullen looks at her, really _looks_ , and finds the familiar ache of _want_ stirring up in his chest.

Oh, in the beginning there had been animosity between them, he can admit that. Their first meeting in Haven’s chantry had given Cullen the impression that she was no better than half of the nobles in Orlais, haughty and aloof and incredibly _wary_ of him. He’d had no patience for her attitude, but that very attitude had transformed over the months and he had realised _he_ was the only one she treat so distantly. Somewhere between her recruitment of the mages and the attack on Haven, however, he had begun to notice things; her attractiveness, the small duck of her head as she grinned and the sweet sound of her laughter reaching his ears from where she teased Cassandra.

 _That_ had only made him less eager to speak to her, out of fear that his attraction would be noticed, that he would embarrass himself in front of her. But it had the effect of making her more distant to him, the possibility of a friendship and the already miniscule chance that she would feel the same disappearing in the spaces between them. The months since they had reached Skyhold had not been easy on Cullen either; his attraction had grown into actual feelings, whilst Evelyn remained distant and cool towards him. Cullen knew his reluctance to approach her had hardly given her the impression that he even _wanted_ to acknowledge her existence, however.

But something had changed before Adamant, something that had her greeting him every time she saw him, and sending shy grins his way whenever she noticed him in the same room. Cullen had wondered at the change enough, but after the night Evelyn and her advisors had argued over Adamant tactics, she seemed to be _actively_ seeking him out and it left Cullen a little flummoxed. The gifted mabari had almost floored him.

“So…”

Cullen is wrenched from his musings on their odd relationship as she teasingly sways towards him, her arm pressing against his for the briefest moment. It is dark, but enough light comes from the courtyard that he can see the grin on her lips.

“Cullen _Stanton_ Rutherford?”

Cullen sighs, and thanks the Maker for the dim light.

“How did you-“ Her laugh breaks off his question, and his chest aches.

“The invitations for the Winter Palace ball came through today. Top of the pile on Josie’s desk, in lovely gold writing, was your name. Your _full_ name.” There’s a cheeky grin on her face that begs a question, and Cullen gives a sigh before he answers.

“It’s not that interesting, I assure you. It was simply my grandfather’s name. As I was my mother’s eldest son, she wanted a way to honour him, I guess.” A silence falls as she ponders the answer, broken only by the sound of the revelry and Cullen scratching the mabari’s ears.

“Huh. That’s surprisingly normal.”

Cullen bristles at that, but Evelyn catches on and gives him an apologetic smile.

“Not what I was referring to, Cullen. Look around you, we’re fighting an ancient Tevinter magister who created the original darkspawn, there was a giant hole in the sky, and the Templars are guzzling blight-infected lyrium like mead amongst other things. Was it so surprising I expected a shocking story behind your middle name?”

“I…suppose not.” Cullen returns her smile, willing to let the imagined slight pass as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand and looks away. Is this what they are doomed to? Misunderstandings and the bare threads of a friendship that remains stunted? He wants to scoff; here he is with _feelings_ for her that seem fated to never be returned.

“I admire you, you know.”

 _That_ pulls Cullen from his glum thoughts. He almost gets whiplash as he turns his head back to stare at her in disbelief, and he is surprised he does not make a verbal splutter.

“I, _what_?”

Evelyn reads something in his expression that causes her to blush fiercely in the orange glow.

“ _No_ not like _that_. I mean, well… that’s not what I meant _now_.” She takes a breath to compose herself, and Cullen wonders if that was really a denial. “I never understood how bound to the Order the Templars were. In Ostwick, we were on good terms with the Templars but we were never _friendly_. We just didn’t _know_ how much they could suffer without lyrium. And I know it must have been hard for you because you _admired_ them so much since you were so young.”

She pauses, and Cullen turns fully to look at her, the hand that had been resting on the mabari moving to rest next to hers on the stone battlements.

“What are you saying?” Her admission is a surprise; he had honestly thought she had lost respect for him the day he accidentally threw the lyrium box at her.

“I’m _saying_ that I admire you. To not only be brave enough to leave the order which you have admired for more than half your life, but for also being brave enough to fight the lyrium leash with all you have. To do all that, and _still_ be able to lead the Inquisition’s armies without so much as batting an eyelid… You’re a brave man, Cullen, and there’s a lot to admire.”

Cullen’s certain he’s imagined the brief moment of her eyes darting up his body. Nonetheless, her praise makes him flush even in the cool air, and he awkwardly coughs into his gauntlet-clad hand. He _feels_ something change in the air between them, be it her magic or the blossoming of _something_ there that had no existed before. It’s a tension, palpable and growing the longer she waits for a response.

“I…will admit, after last week I would expect your opinion of me to be quite the opposite. I’ve never told anyone the whole truth of what happened in Kinloch Hold, or at Kirkwall. And, I did throw a wooden box at you.”

Evelyn stares at him for a moment, watches his hand rubbing the back of his neck in nervousness and slight discomfort. He is unused to being praised for something he views as a negative aspect of himself.

“As long as you weren’t aiming for me, Cullen, then I can forgive that.” There’s a pause, a flicker of seriousness in the tension between them before Evelyn grins and Cullen allows himself to chuckle.

“I can assure you, my lady, I would never purposefully aim for you.”

Their smiles are matching, a moment of humour grasped at and threaded into their budding friendship.

They spend another hour on the battlements, talking with periods of silence, testing the boundaries of what they can ask, what is too personal and what information can be given freely.

They part at three of the morning watch: Evelyn’s heart is lighter, and Cullen feels the embers of hope spark back to life.

* * *

A month later, two days before the Inquisitor is due to return to Skyhold, Cullen descends his ladders early in the morning to find  _the Inquisitor_ sitting at his desk and working.

Beast wags his tail in greeting from where he sits in the corner, diligently guarding over his snoozing sister.

Cullen is nothing short of confused; he locked all three of his doors and Evelyn is a mage, unable to pick locks if her very life depended on it.

“Inquisitor? What are you doing here?” Evelyn does not even flinch, but continues writing _with his quill and his ink_ , on _parchment_ that is not her own.

“Sera unlocked the door for me. Vivienne was determined to drag me off to a dress fitting ‘the minute we arrive at Skyhold.’ I had to flee, you understand. This is the last place Josephine will think to search for me, when she eventually wakes up and tries to find me.”

Cullen sits in the chair opposite her; it feels strange to be on this side of his desk, is this how his recruits feel when he asks them to sit down?

“No, I mean _here_ , back in Skyhold. We weren’t expecting you for another two days.”

“Oh, that. Our business in the _Emprise_ was finished earlier than we thought. We didn’t send word ahead, none of us were really feeling up to the fanfare of an official welcome back. I…also wanted to make sure you received the letters I found personally.”

Cullen feels his already bad mood darkening. But the mention of the letters he had asked her to find, however, brings another issue to mind that almost makes him wince.

“Ah, how long have you been in here?” The sympathetic grimace on her face almost makes his mood worse.

“Long enough to hear your night terrors. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise they were so bad.”

Running a hand over his face, Cullen sighs. No one has been witness to his nightmares in years.

“Last night they were… worse than usual. Yesterday was a particularly trying day.” The smile he gives her is tight, and Evelyn is surprised at how earnestly she wishes there was a way to help him.

“Are they always the same?”

“Usually. But sometimes they are different, and last night was one such occasion.” Cullen _hates_ how terse his voice is, but a headache is coming on like the pounding of a drum inside his brain, and his patience for prying questions has never been high.

Inexplicably, he _wants_ to tell her, in a vain hope that divulging his nightmare will take the weight off his shoulders, will make it less real. Evelyn sits watching him patiently, her hands folded together on his desk.

“Usually, I’m back in Kinloch Hold: it’s always the same moment, the same demon trying to get into my head. But last night… I dreamt I was in Kirkwall, in that final confrontation with Knight Commander Meredith. In those ones she wins.”

Evelyn’s expression is one of understanding, of sympathy. She’s read his file, he knows, so the events at Kirkwall are in no way unknown to her. Cullen watches her carefully as she ponders what to say next. He does not want sympathy, or apologies. He has endured too much of either, and the nightmares seem a suitable penance for his actions in Kirkwall.

“I suffer from them too, you know.” The dark look on Cullen’s face disappears briefly as he looks up to lock eyes with Evelyn in curious surprise. “Ever since I got my true memories back from the Nightmare demon. I guess that’s why it took them away in the first place.” Her smile is entirely too sardonic and self-deprecating, in a way that makes Cullen unable to smile with her.

They sit in silence for what feels like hours, both of them tucked into their own dark thoughts. The tension that had been between them before returns, only heavier and darker. Evelyn jumps to her feet with a clap that startles even the Mabari.

“Right, now that we’ve aired our dirty laundry to each other, so to speak, how about a game of chess?”

“I’m not entirely sure you’re using that phrase correctly, Inquisitor. Does-“

“ _Chess,_ Cullen. Yes or no? I’ve been practicing against Dorian so I can beat you without you throwing the game for me.”

 _That_ lightens his mood a little, and he nods his head in acquiescence. As they move to the door, he is almost overtaken by the urge to touch her, to place a hand on her arm or the small of back as she swings the door to his office open.

That urge disappears at the sight of a _briefly_ alarmed Josephine on the other side of his door, one hand outstretched as though they opened it just as she went to do so. Her surprise erases so quickly Cullen would have missed it entirely if he hadn’t been looking at her face. Expression schooled into one of a kindly, sweet smile, Cullen notices her attention is entirely on Evelyn.

“Ah, Inquisitor. Just the person I was looking for: Madame Vivienne’s recommended dress maker arrived in Skyhold two days ago. She is _insisting_ on your presence for you to try on some sample gowns for Halamshiral.”

Her smile is kindly and sweet, but her words betray the pragmatic ambassador behind it with a thinly veiled threat to _move_. Josephine links her arm with Evelyn’s, all but dragging her away from Cullen’s doorway with an expression that reminds Cullen of a disciplining mother.

Despite his headache and general bad mood, Cullen has to chuckle at the desperate plea for help Evelyn throws over her shoulder as Josephine leads her away.

**Author's Note:**

> I did something similar to this years ago for another fandom I write for, and I quite like the idea of it for Cullen/Inquisitor. I'm not sure if anyone has done anything like this for this pairing before, hopefully not as I can't find one!


End file.
